by Jill Cox
Objectively
Objectively speaking, January, February, and March of junior year were a Dumpster fire. My grandmother was dying. My other best friend spent most of his free time avoiding my new girlfriend by hanging out chez Marie-France with you and Anne. And Meg, who knew next to nothing about Gigi’s illness, quickly grew weary of brooding, surly Pete.
Your dad had a heart attack. Gigi died. Spring break in Italy got canceled.
See? Dumpster fire.
But there’s one memory from the days before Gigi died that I revisit on the regular: the night you and I watched my Ducky Shincrackers’ highlights reel together. Because that night, despite all the sadness bracketing both our lives, I caught you staring at my younger self on the screen like he was your childhood idol.
Don’t try to deny it, missy. I still have photographic evidence somewhere on my phone.
“Dude,” I said, bumping your arm with my elbow. “Stop checking Baby Pete out. You are way too old for him.”
“I don’t understand.” You stole the remote control from my hand and pressed pause. “If we met at Sullivan’s the night of your accident, why didn’t I recognize you the first day of school?”
“Aw, Sully,” I laughed, still not following you. “It’s fine. I’ve got a forgettable face.”
“No. You don’t.” You stared at the screen for a long moment. The boy frozen in close-up had a very Gilbert Blythe-ish air about him: dark, curly hair with laughing brown eyes, plus a body in that epic stage between boy and man, with bulging lean muscles under his clothes.
Not to mention swagger for days. High School Pete’s confidence had never suffered a single blow. Every time he put forth minimal effort, he won – in the classroom, on the soccer field, and definitely out on the dance floor among his lady friends.
The kid staring back at you from my TV screen had no clue what was about to hit him. And just like that, I realized with horror why you didn’t recognize me on the first day of school.
Freshman Year Pete didn’t hold a candle to his bright-and-shiny former self.
True fact: pity discomfits me, and in that moment, your pity was rolling off you in waves. And because I have done everything in my power to avoid the bad feels, I started to laugh. Quietly at first, like church giggles, and then gut-shakingly LOUD. Which made you blush. Hard.
“Stop that,” you hissed, turning even darker red. “I’m just appreciating God’s handiwork here. Hasn’t anyone ever taught you that beauty can be objectively quantified?”
“Um, no,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek to calm my hysteria. “I was taught not to objectify people, Miss Sullivan. Especially not in God’s name.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I like to think so,” I grinned. “Fine, Sully. If we’re talking about basic physical attributes, then yes, I can admit that some people are more eye-catching than others. Let’s take Kelly James, for example. The first time we met, I may have noticed that her hips are proportionate to her upper body. Objectively speaking, of course.”
Dude. You scowled at me. “Is that your way of saying she’s hot?”
“I don’t need to say it. According to you, we can quantify her hotness with objective data. Actually, for the record, all three of the Addison girls rank high on the hotness scale.”
You slammed a cushion against me with more righteous indignation than I’d seen in a long time, my friend. But then you must have wondered if Gigi’s couch was expensive, because you brushed your fingers gently over the cushion, then laid it nicely back in place.
“Okay, fine,” you said, clasping your hands in your lap. “If we’re trading objective data, Kelly James thinks Dan has kissable lips.”
Wow, Sully. You went right for the jugular. “Kelly? Or Anne?”
“Kelly,” you replied with a slight quirk of your eyebrow. “When we got back to the hotel in Rouen after karaoke last September, she collapsed into a chair and sighed. ‘We gotta watch ourselves around Eagle Scouts like Dan Thomas. Maybe it was his Jagger moves or that Ed Sheeran voice, but something tells me Dan’s pouty bottom lip is definitely worth exploring.’”
“Wow. And how’d you respond?”
“Ha!” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Listen, sister, you knew you were making me jealous right that second. You knew it, and you did it anyway, which was my final clue that something had shifted between us.
You’d never done that before – provoking me to jealousy. At least not on purpose. And I realized as I unpacked your words that there was a good reason you’d swiped at me.
For the first time ever, you saw the Addison girls as competition. And hey, after months and years of orbiting your world, my inner fanboy felt vindicated. So I reset my flabbergasted face into my most charming smile, and tested a boundary.
“You know what, Sully? Maybe you should test Kelly’s theory about Dan’s lips.”
“You know what, Russell? Maybe I will.”
“Good.” I crossed my own arms over my chest. “Here’s an insider tip: skinny margaritas on the rocks are Dan’s personal kryptonite. He’s very friendly on Cinco de Mayo. Not to mention health-conscious. How else do you think he got those Jagger moves?”
You huffed a little bit, Sully, and I thought I might have pushed you too far. But when I pushed play to restart my senior year highlight reel, the blooper reel queued up instead. And even though you’d just silenced me with one flip of your hair, the next minute you were laughing so hard that you could not breathe, which made me want to explore the pout of your bottom lip.
I love your laugh, Sully. And the younger Pete inside me – the one who first saw you that day at Sullivan’s – was giving me internal high fives every time you giggled at his on-screen shenanigans. In that moment, he wanted me to lock it down with you so we could spend every night bantering for the rest of our very long lives.
But you weren’t free yet. And neither was I, for that matter.
Still… you gotta wonder how many times I’ve screwed up our chances. For example, if I’d admitted I still love you last Saturday in my apartment, what would you have said?
Would you have stayed in Paris? Or would you still have run home to Irish Jack?
I know, Sully. I know. There’s no point in what if.
But that doesn’t stop me from remembering your face when I said Kelly is hot. It’s my memory, and I’ll go full-on only child with anyone who tries to alter that moment in my mind. Because objectively speaking, you are most beautiful when I surprise you.
Or maybe when you laugh.
DETENTE
A couple of days after my grandmother died, I called the Sigma Phi Beta president to request a meeting. I’d already decided to deactivate my membership, but not before I cast my vote for Drew Sutton in the upcoming officer election.
Drew was always meant to be president. He was the only one from our pledge class who genuinely loved Greek life. That’s the sort of person you want representing your organization, you know? A guy who can see the experience’s value despite the everyday nonsense?
Before I left the house, I hauled my plastic bins up from the basement, one by one. I was loading them in the back of my car when Sutton walked by on his way home from class.
“Oh. Hello.” He adjusted his backpack straps for a couple of seconds. “Listen, man, I’m really sorry about your grandmother. I know she’s… um, what I mean is…”
He stopped himself mid-sentence, and as I watched his face shift from one emotion to the next, I actually felt sorry for the kid. No doubt he understood that the last thing you want to hear when you’re grieving is some throwaway phrase about a life well lived or the end of someone’s suffering.
Which is why I didn’t punch him when he suddenly (and very awkwardly) closed the distance between us to give me a hug.
Oh, yeah. I know. It was next-level weird. Believe me.
When he stepped away from me, Sutton cleared his throat. “Hey
, um… listen, I’ve been meaning to thank you for picking me up from the bar the other night to bring me to the hospital. I was in no shape to drive, and it goes without saying that I needed to be with the Sullivans.”
I leaned back against my car. “Yeah, no problem, man. I was only trying to help.”
“I know you were. Which makes me feel a little sick, actually, because you should have spent those couple of hours with your grandmother instead of babysitting me. And for that, I’m truly sorry.”
My stomach knotted. “Don’t worry about it, Sutton. Gigi was already in bed by the time I came to find you. You didn’t cost me anything but a couple hours’ sleep.”
“Okay, then. Allow me to be sorry for extending your jet lag.” He smiled, but for once, he didn’t smirk. “Speaking of my bad behavior, has anyone told you yet that Meredith and I broke up?”
“Uh… no.” I couldn’t stop blinking, Sully. “Gosh, man. I don’t even know what to say. I mean, I’m –”
“Don’t say it.” His eyes were lined with silver. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry, Russell. You and I both know I never deserved Meredith’s friendship, let alone her love. Apparently she reserves that privilege for better men. Looks like Molly and Jamie raised her right.”
On a normal day, I might have called him out on his self-pitying word bait, but that day was far from normal. Because that day, for the first time ever, I no longer viewed Sutton as competition. No, in that moment, I only saw Drew Sutton as the boy who loved you first.
And that, my friend, changed my paradigm forever.
“Hey Sutton?” I said after a very long pause where we both stared at our feet. “Do you ever wonder how things might have gone down if your Girl Friday had gone to Harvard instead of Highgate?”
He squinted at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, hypothetically speaking, what if we had only ever been Drew and Pete, Sigma Phi Beta pledge brothers? If that Sullivan girl had gone to Harvard, would we be friends now?”
He watched me for a moment as he replayed the past through a new lens. Then he smiled. “You know what, Russell? One hundred percent, I think we would. We started out that way, didn’t we?”
“We did.” I reached my hand out toward him. “Maybe when I get back from Paris this summer, we could start back at the beginning? I know I’d like that.”
He eyed me strangely, as though I’d said some magical combination of words he’d never expected to hear. “Yeah, man,” he said as he took my hand and shook it firmly. “I think I’d like that too. You game to find some non-lethal food-truck tacos?”
I laughed, and Drew shook my hand again. But instead of shaking it a third time, he punched me in the shoulder, turned on his heel, and walked into the Sigma Phi Beta house without another word.
Promenade des anglais
I almost kissed you three times junior year.
The first (and most obvious) time was that night we were dancing at the Tuileries. But I knew it was wayyyyy too soon for that level of old-school Hollywood nonsense, so I refrained.
The second time was in Marie-France’s elevator on your birthday. When that pulley jerked to a halt and you pitched forward into my chest… well, let’s just say you have no idea how close I came to risking two black eyes. (One from Sutton, one from Meg. And maybe one from you as well.)
The third time was in my bedroom the day of Gigi’s wake. The third time is charming, right? Uh, no. Not when a certain overprotective big brother ruins the mood.
I know you’ve heard these three stories, but I wanted to remind you that despite my many foibles, I do recognize the sacred nature of what’s happened between us. You mean more to me than some random kiss. That’s the point of these letters, right? To tell the truth.
And the truth is, I didn’t plan to kiss you that day on the boardwalk in Nice. I didn’t plan it, because I was legit convinced I might lose you the second I admitted how I felt.
It was May 10th – more than two months after you’d broken things off with Sutton, and four weeks after I’d broken up with Meg for good. When I’d confessed I was single again that morning at the perfume factory, the air between us felt light again. Like you’d finally given up a battle with your own heart, and I was somehow the victor.
“For the love of everything good and holy, would you just kiss her already?” Dan groaned two hours later, shoving me playfully into a hydrangea bush on our way to the arcade. “March yourself back to that boardwalk, put your lips on hers, and move on to Happily-Ever-After Land already.”
“But –”
“No buts, Russell. I can’t keep watching the two of you yearning for each other until the end of time. Do something now, or I’ll tell her about the night of the twenty-five thousand steps.”
“It was thirty thousand and you know it, Danny,” I shouted over my shoulder as I took off sprinting down the hill.
I spotted you way before you noticed me. Your copper hair was shining like a beacon from a thousand meters away, and every few seconds you glanced out to sea. But your eyes never met mine.
Frenetic energy flooded my veins. I began to pace from side to side, weaving in and out of tourists like a stray dog. Calm down, I told myself. Calm. The. Heck. Down.
And just like that, you were standing before me, your hands on your hips. “I thought you guys went to the arcade?”
Okay, Russell, I thought. Just be yourself. If she wasn’t into you, she would never have started that @vertismes Twitter account.
Deep breaths, man. Come on. Do NOT pass out now.
“Arcade?” I answered, trying not to hyperventilate. “Uh, yeah. Dan went there. But I, um… I guess I came to find you.”
You relaxed against the boardwalk wall and asked me some question, which I absolutely don’t remember, because I was too focused on your lips and the sudden flush in your cheeks as I brushed a rogue hair behind your ear.
When my fingers touched your skin, your entire body stiffened for the briefest of moments. If it had been a week earlier, I might have stepped backward and made some slapstick comment to put you at ease. But this wasn’t a week earlier, or a month earlier. This was it. I couldn’t wait any longer. And as I stepped closer, pressing my hand against your cheek, you immediately relaxed into my touch.
Maybe you didn’t want to wait either. Because when I kissed you, you kissed me back.
Did you surprise yourself that day? Because everything you said afterward sounded like nonsensical gibberish to me, and it took everything inside me not to laugh, because dude. *THE* MEREDITH SULLIVAN kissed ME.
You kissed me, Sully. And if anyone had told me that day that I’d be running away from you two months later, I would have punched them in both eyeballs. Twice.
The North Station
Despite all appearances to the contrary, I’m an old-fashioned guy. The last thing I wanted to do once I’d finally found the cohones to show you my true feelings was to squander my chances at an epic first date. So on the bus back from Nice to Paris, I made my move.
“Hey,” I said quietly, looping my index finger around your pinky. “What are you doing next Saturday?”
You looked at me funny. “Saturday day, or Saturday night?”
“Uh, both, I guess. You busy?”
Your eyes shifted back and forth between mine, then you grinned. “Well, I’ll have to check my planner when we get back to Paris, but I think I’m free.”
“Good. Would you go out with me? On a date, I mean. Like, officially or whatever.”
“Sure.” You flashed me a flirty smile. “Gosh, it’s a good thing you asked me six days in advance. Because wow, does my social calendar fill up fast.”
Har-dee-har-har, sister. Thanks for drawing attention to my overly eager request.
Speaking of overly eager syndrome, the following Saturday at six a.m., I found a model-esque redhead slash former Irish dance champion waiting for me outside Marie-France’s building dressed in jeans, comfortable shoes, a thin sweater layered
over another top, a crossbody bag, and a rain jacket. Just in case.
No one should look that effortlessly gorgeous, okay? Especially not while they’re carrying a rain jacket.
We hopped on the Métro at Saint-Sulpice and took the 4 line north to the Gare du Nord. A few steps into the station, you tugged at my hand to stop me. “What are we doing here?”
I lifted your hand and nodded toward your charm bracelet. “If you arrive home with any blank spaces, you will totally offend your brother. So I thought I’d help you out a little today.”
Your eyes widened. “Wait, what? Where are we going?”
“Look, Ginger Spice, when I asked you to run away with me last October, you ditched me the next morning for some West Coast surfer dude. So I figured we should hop the first train to anywhere and start over where we got sidetracked. See what I did there? Some train imagery for my bookish girl who digs that sort of thing.”
You laughed, Sully. Then you kissed me right there in the middle of everyone. “You’re a romantic,” you whispered against my lips. “You do not give that impression, my friend.”
“Maybe you just need glasses,” I whispered back. But you were right, Sully. I’ve never been romantic in my entire life. I’ve never wanted to be until I fell in love with you.
Here’s a little fun fact you never knew until now, Miss Smarty Pants: I timed every single second that morning to arrive at the Gare du Nord exactly at 6:43 a.m. I knew in advance that we’d take the Thalys high-speed train to Brussels at 7:32 – First Class, baby. I’d researched Saturday morning Métro schedules between Saint-Sulpice and the train station. I’d even low-key calculated how long it would take our matching strides to carry us toward the departures board in the main hall.
I used my left brain. Can you believe it? Dude, I even did a test run on the subway before class on Friday morning. Because when I plan a perfect first date for my favorite girl, I don’t want to leave any detail unattended.
